


Footballers’ Wife

by Monsterunderkilt



Series: The Manse [35]
Category: Actor RPF, Celebrities - Fandom, RPF - Fandom, Real Person Fanfic - Fandom, Real Person Fiction
Genre: F/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-29
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:34:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27780847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Monsterunderkilt/pseuds/Monsterunderkilt
Summary: A friendly game picks up on the front lawn
Series: The Manse [35]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1209447
Kudos: 1





	Footballers’ Wife

At the end of my morning jog around the Manse grounds, I find myself trotting up the long driveway toward the portico when I hear voices on the far side of the tall bushes. I sneak around to the rather large rectangle of flat front lawn and see Jon and Ken in loose shorts and t-shirts, kicking a soccer ball around, trying to steal it from each other in some random one-on-one matchup. They even plucked out four of the solar path lights from the flower beds—two situated on each end of the lawn—to represent goals. I cross my arms over my chest as I approach and just stare at this boyish display before me.

Just then, Stephen bursts out of the front door, also dressed for the occasion.

“Hey, Madam! Come to see the game?” He slows only for a moment to steal a kiss from me before he bolts over toward the others.

“What game? Looks to me like three old guys dicking around.”

Stephen laughs as he jogs backwards a bit. “It’s me and Jon against Sir Ken!”

“How is that remotely fair‽”

In that moment, Ken steals the ball from Jon and he trots it over in my direction. Jon bends over, hands on his knees, catching his breath. “I haven’t played this since my William & Mary days,” he says. “And Stephen spent all his college years reading _Lord of the Rings_ fifty times, so even with the two of us, we’re no good against this guy.”

Ken sidles up to me, grinning ear-to-ear, and I look him up and down, taking in this sweaty athlete that suddenly materialised before me. I always admired his calves, but it never occurred to me that they’re so toned for a reason. “What on earth is this all about?” I ask with a smile.

Ken picks up the ball and tosses it to me. I catch it against my chest and grimace at the grass stains that have now transferred to my shirt.“Before I saw Derek Jacobi in _Hamlet_ when I was a teenager,” he says between deep breaths, “I had half a mind to become a footballer.”

“Really?” I say, tilting my head incredulously. “Well thank God for Sir Derek, then.”

Ken chuckles as he leans in and kisses the spot where my neck meets my clavicle. My skin prickles pleasantly. He winks at me and lowers his voice. “And while we all know it was for the best, I still love to play around sometimes. When Jon admitted that he’s not unfamiliar with the game, we made a friendly wager, but like you said, two against one, no matter the skills, is bollocks. So I was rather hoping you would join my team.”

I shove the ball back at him and hold up my hands. “Oh, no way that is not my thing at all—”

“Oh, Madam, just this once, it won’t take long to beat them anyhow—”

“I don’t know shit about football—” I start backing away.

Ken, being much bigger than me, has no trouble physically preventing my escape. He gazes into me, weakening my resolve with his firm ministrations up and down my arms. “ _Darling_... it’s just for a laugh. Would you really mind so much getting chased by those two strapping fellows over there?”

I peek past Ken’s shoulder at Jon and Stephen, who are both limbering up, doing sexy stretches and breathing exercises. They’re adorable. It feels like a flashback to the old Daily Show days when they used to put on the occasional pratfall comedy skits.

Ken, sensing a chink in my armour, tosses the ball over his shoulder and pulls me against him. I’m surprised (should I really be surprised anymore?) that his sudoriferous essence is more attractive than repellant. His hands massage my tired back and shoulders as he whispers, “Afterwards, we can have a nice, long shower and order some takeaway to eat out on the balcony while we watch another episode of that 14-part women in film documentary on TCM.”

I close my eyes and smile at the deeply tempting imagery he just evoked in my mind’s eye. No wonder he’s always been able to convince so many people to do his cinematic will over the years. Charming bastard. “Alright,” I say, “but you direct me.”

“Of course,” he says with a wink, kissing my palm. He takes my hand to walk back over to our opposition.

Stephen and Jon meet us in the center of the lawn, the ball resting between us. Jon holds up a finger. “Whoever scores three goals first gets to take the Madam out for an entire weekend.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, what? Are we supposed to share her, Jon?”

“As if we’ve never done that before?”

“But if Sir wins, he gets her all to himself!”

“He already gets her all to himself.”

“Excuse me,” I say, “ _I_ decide who I get to _myself_.”

Ken waves his hands. “We can’t wager the Missus, clearly. You said it was for fifty quid.”

“Fifty quid is more than fifty bucks,” Jon says. “I said fifty bucks.”

“Make it a hundred euro,” Stephen says.

We all stare at him.

“What?”

“Done,” Ken says, shaking both their hands. “A hundred euro it is.”

I step forward and give Jon and Stephen each a good luck kiss. “Let’s just be careful. Y’all are too old for this shit. I’m too old for this shit.” I turn to Ken and clap my hands together. “Let’s get this over with.”

Ten minutes passes, and we’re tied 2-2. I am far more exhausted than I could have predicted, but letting Ken yell at me proves far more arousing than I could have ever imagined. I don’t regret a moment of it.

When Stephen scores the second goal for him and Jon, Ken and I take advantage of his overzealous victory dance and rush the ball down the other side of the lawn. We split up and Stephen comes after me, but I kick the ball away just as Jon jumps in front of me. Ken catches it between his quick feet and while Jon and Stephen go after him, he kicks it back to me so I can easily get it between the lamps for the final goal.A ridiculous elation flows through me and I finally gain an understanding as to why men do this shit. They just need to get their primal jollies out somehow, and at least this doesn’t involve gladiatorial combat. I admit to myself that seeing these old guys engage in a friendly contest of physical prowess switches on some chunk of my reptile brain and almost makes me ovulate right then and there.

Ken rushes over to me and lifts me up by my legs, hopping up and down while cheering our win.

“Kenny, you’re gonna bust a hip or worse! Put me down!”

With a hearty laugh, he lowers me, but into an unexpected dip, followed by a lip-smacking kiss. When my feet finally hit the ground, I rush over to Jon, who has collapsed onto his back on the grass, taking deep revitalising breaths. I hold his head in my lap and kiss his nose.

“Will you be OK, pupik?” I ask, rubbing his temples.

“Oh I’m fine,” he says, closing his eyes. “Just let the vultures do as they please with my corpse.”

“A Tibetan sky-funeral for you, then?”

“I don’t know how kosher it is, but I don’t give two shits right now.”

Stephen comes over and squats down next to me. I pat his knee and kiss his cheek. “Well, at least you beat Obama with your paper ball basket-shooting skills this week.”

He nods, still catching his breath. “I can only take so many victories at a time. Gotta be humble, you know.”

Ken jogs over and hands us each a bottle of water. “Same time next week, boyos?”

The rest of us, in unison:“ _NO_.”


End file.
